Neil woke up groggy. The laptop continued to glow on the floor next to his pillow, but in the glare of the morning sunlight it was impossible to make out the manga on the screen.
“Get up, you lazy chef,” Larry’s voice called out from Neil’s phone. Larry had helpfully recorded his own voice as Neil’s phone alarm, then promptly neglected to tell Neil how to change it to something else.
“Get up, you lazy chef.”
Neil reached over and clicked the alarm off. He saw that there were three text messages waiting in his inbox. One from Nakamura saying that he and Angel were picking up the elder Flambés at the airport and would meet Neil at the church.
The second message was from Neil’s school, asking him if he had dropped out.
Then there was a third message, also from Nakamura, saying they had arrived at the church early, and that Neil might want to brace himself—the service was “all Larry”.
“Brace myself? What does that mean?” Neil said. He stood up slowly and made his way to the kitchen sink. He turned on the tap and then cupped his hands to accept the cold, clear water. He splashed his face and ran wet fingers through his hair. “Brace myself,” Neil said. “Brace myself for what?”
Neil walked back into the office and put on his best suit; actually, his only suit. He’d grown since its purchase, and the arms of the suit didn’t quite reach his wrists. And the new shirt he was wearing had cuffs that extended down to his knuckles. Neil knew he looked comical, but he had a sneaking suspicion that it might be just the right look for a funeral that was “all Larry.”
Neil reached down and picked up his laptop. He put it on the desktop and took one final look at The Chef. “I guess this is really good-bye, cousin,” Neil said, reaching across to close the laptop.
He stopped.
Something wasn’t right. Neil leaned in and peered closely at the final panel of the manga. Something was definitely not right. In fact, something was distinctly . . . different.
Neil had seen the panel so many times in the past few days that he had memorized every line, every curve, every detail. What had changed? The Chef stood at the ready, poised to defend his kitchen cave and his best friend. His legs were wide apart, his teeth were gritted, his hands . . . his HANDS!
Neil stared so hard at the hands he thought he might burn a hole in the screen.
In his hands, the Chef was clutching two perfectly ripe pomegranates.
* * *
The tiny church of St. Lawrence—the patron saint of cooks—stood on a small hill not far from Chez Flambé. Parishioners climbed a flight of thirty steps before entering the weathered cedar doors.
Decades before, when the neighborhood wasn’t quite so run-down, a wealthy chef had paid for an enormous marble statue of the saint to stand at the base of the stairs. Years of rain and seagull poop had covered the statue with a thick mossy patina—not unlike a bear’s fur coat, if bears were green.
As Neil pedaled up to the church, he saw that the fuzzy saint was wearing a sombrero. A sash with the words VIVA ZAPATA ran over his shoulder, a souvenir of their trip to Mexico. Neil started to realize what Nakamura had meant by “brace yourself” and “all Larry.”
Neil just shook his head and ditched his bike at the saint’s feet. He was bursting with his news. Larry had left him a clue. Larry was alive. Neil was sure of it. He’d never been so happy to see pomegranates.
Neil practically flew up the stairs and into the back of the church. He had to pull up short to avoid colliding with Father Costello. The small, round man stood in the entranceway, a confused look on his face. He was holding a pen above what appeared to be a ringed notebook.
“Ah, Neil,” Father Costello said, looking over the tops of his round glasses. “I need a noun.”
“Um . . . a what?” Neil said.
“I need a noun.”
The sheer weirdness of the request left Neil stunned.
Father Costello looked back down at his notes. “I also need an adjective. . . .”
A thought struck Neil. Larry must have written his own eulogy, sort of. “Let me guess. Mad Libs?”
“Larry always worried that he’d die young. He told me exactly how he wanted his funeral to ‘go down.’ It’s very unusual, and not strictly according to church rules, but your cousin was very persuasive. Some of it is very . . . Larry.”
Neil craned his neck to see past the priest. But there was a large curtain covering the archway. Neil noticed it was emblazoned with the words EARLY RISERS FOOTBALL CLUB. THE YEAST AMONG US SHALL RISE! It was Larry’s favorite color, coffee brown.
Neil realized with a sniff that Larry had actually dyed the fabric himself, with cheap instant coffee. “Never drink the stuff. Life’s too short,” Larry often said if someone offered him a cup. Just a few minutes before, that memory would have made Neil cry. Now he actually chuckled.
“For a noun, how about ‘pomegranate’? And ‘alive’ is probably a good adjective.” He stepped past the priest. “And if you need another noun, try ‘instant coffee.’”
Father Costello scribbled down the words. “Alive? Instant coffee?” he asked, but Neil had already gone through the curtain.
Neil opened his mouth to tell everyone his news, but he saw the bowed heads and stopped. Was he right? Was he one hundred percent sure Larry was alive? He hadn’t seen or heard from Larry directly. Could he prove Larry had made the change in the manga? Neil was convinced—at least ninety-five percent convinced—but yelling the news to a few hundred mourners might not be . . . appropriate? Sensitive? This was a funeral, after all.
Maybe telling his family and friends first would make sense. Neil looked around the church. What he saw was more clear evidence of Larry’s peculiar instructions. In lieu of a coffin there was a giant papier-mâché bust of Larry’s head in the middle of the nave. The grin was huge. The hair and scruffy beard were made from what appeared to be spaghetti noodles. The eyes were hand-painted bowls. Neil recognized them as the expensive crème brulée ramekins he’d been looking for a couple of weeks before.
The whole goofy-looking mess sat on the handlebars of Larry’s beloved motorcycle. Neil assumed the giant Larry head was from his recent night-school course with the famous papier-mâché artist Louise Bond.
Neil heard the sound of a sobbing woman to his left. Actually, it was too loud, he realized, for just one person. I wonder if Louise is here? Neil thought, glancing over. The entire left side of the church was packed with black-clad mourners. They all appeared to be female.
Most had their faces buried in handkerchiefs. No. Neil looked more closely. They weren’t handkerchiefs but leftover me-shirts. A woman Neil recognized as the actress Ellen Sage wiped her eyes on the words I’m with Cupid. Most of the wailing girlfriends were entirely new to Neil. Many of them seemed surprised to see so many other girlfriends. Neil spied more than a few shaking fists peeking out from behind the shirts.
Neil shook his head in wonder and walked to the front of the church. Isabella, Jones, Angel, and Nakamura were sitting a few rows from the front and Neil signaled that he’d be back.
His parents and Larry’s were seated together in the front row. They were leaning over, praying, although from habit Neil double-checked that they weren’t actually just checking their e-mails.
Neil wanted to rush right up to them, to tell them that Larry was alive . . . but he paused. He could see that Larry’s parents looked exhausted and sad. Neil reminded himself that he needed to be one hundred percent sure he was right before he got their hopes up, and even hinting at his thoughts might be too much of a shock. If he tried to explain the clue in the Chef’s hand, would they even understand?
Instead he sat down behind them and ran his hand gently over his uncle’s back. Neil’s parents turned and hugged him. They looked exhausted too. Neil felt the tears well up again in his eyes, and was confused. If he thought Larry was alive, then why was he crying?
“I’m going to say hi to my friends,” he said. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
Neil walked back to the pew where his friends were busy wiping their eyes.
“Where have you been?” Isabella said. “You’re late.”
Neil saw that her eyes were red. Neil realized that he could tell Isabella his news about Larry. She’d understand. She’d be happy.
Neil smiled and opened his mouth just as the organ interrupted with a loud blast, sort of like an explosion but less musical. For a moment Neil thought the motorcycle had somehow started. Then he realized the organist was actually launching into one of the punk anthems Larry used to blare from his radio—usually a few seconds before getting a ticket for noise violations.
Neil leaned in close to Isabella. “You won’t believe it,” he said, so excited with his news that he spoke louder than he’d expected. That and the organ’s growing whine approximated the relative volume of a jumbo jet. Angel, Nakamura, and Jones stared over at him with angry looks.
“Shhh,” Isabella said.
“Shhhh,” said two hundred women behind him.
“Show some respect,” Jones added, poking a muscular finger at Neil. He seemed to bruise the air.
Neil sat back in his seat and decided he’d better just go along for the ride until the end of the service. “Okay, but I highly doubt respect is going to be a big part of any funeral scripted by Larry.”
“Shhh . . .” Isabella said again.
Now the organ was in full punk rock mode, and Neil watched as cracks started to appear in the plaster ceiling of the church. He stared up at the organ loft. He could just make out the neon red spiked hair of Larry’s friend Emily Ivy peeking out from over the railing. He started to get up to rejoin his parents but spied Father Costello starting down the aisle, still checking his notes. Neil sat back down.
Father Costello seemed to notice the strange music about halfway down the carpet and resignedly hung his head. He picked up the pace and practically sprinted up to the altar.
As soon as he reached it, he turned and waved frantically for Emily to stop. She gave him an impish grin and slammed her fingers down, forcing one more gigantic blast from the pipes. The echo reverberated throughout the church.
Neil wiped the remains of some plaster cherub off the shoulder of his suit and watched as Father Costello got back to his feet and made his way to the pulpit. He adjusted his glasses.
“Um, hello everyone. And . . . hey, whatzzzzz happenin’.”